They both laughed, Red’s sounding rusty—but not as rusty as it had been. He’d laughed with Chloe yesterday, first a bit, then a lot, and it had loosened something in him.

Maybe that was why he’d agreed to help her. Yeah, that must be it.

Now, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think she could hear his thoughts—that she’d been waiting for him to figure out his shit and truly accept the deal between them. Because when he pulled out his phone to take a picture of what he’d done, to commemorate it in some wild, nervous moment of just-in-case, there was an email from her in his inbox. He probably should’ve left it, should’ve looked at it later, but something curious zipped up his spine and he found himself opening the curtest email he’d ever received.

Red,

Our in-person consultation efforts failed miserably due to a lack of focus on both sides. From now on, email seems the most efficient choice. Questions:

1. Do you own a domain name, and if so, where is it registered?

2. Do you have any ideas or examples of websites you find pleasing/effective?

3. What is/are the main purpose(s) of this site? Exposure, direct sales, portfolio, etc.?

4. Do you participate in social media, and if so, which platforms?

5. Do you have an ideal time line in mind?

Rgds.,

Chloe

Rgds., she said, like she was too bloody busy to type out the full word. And anyway, wasn’t that email-speak for fuck off? But she was the one in his inbox, talking about things like “a lack of focus on both sides.”

That phrase in particular gnawed at him, the way his granddad’s soft old mongrel used to gnaw at people’s knuckles. Both sides, huh? He wondered if her lack of focus had anything in common with his. If she felt this insistent, dizzying tug toward someone she should barely like, the way he did. The idea made something inside him coil up tight, like a spring. Made him remember the wide-eyed look she’d given him when they’d tumbled onto the bed together yesterday.

He must be petty as hell, because he hoped prim and proper Chloe was an absolute mess over him, that she’d stayed up last night thinking about him with every ounce of the frustration he’d felt over her. No—double the frustration, just because.

Imagining her tangling the sheets as she rolled around, irritated, unable to get his name out of her head, made him feel …

“What are you grinning at?” Vik demanded, craning his neck to see the phone.

Red locked the screen. “Email.”

“Since when do you get so jolly over emails? Hate to be the one to tell you this, but those foreign princes are usually—”

“Ah, fuck off.”

“Who was it from?” Vik asked, nudging Red’s shoulder. “Because I’ll use my considerable stalking talents to find out anyway, so you might as well just tell me.”

Red sighed, wishing that was a joke. “It’s from a web designer. I’m getting a site done.”

“No fucking way. Look at you, off like a shot all of a sudden. You’re on it.”

Red put the phone in his pocket, already mentally typing his reply. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”

Dear Chloe,

I don’t think we failed miserably. You didn’t seem miserable on the back of my bike, unless I misunderstood the screaming.

And, about yesterday—I already knew I couldn’t focus, but I had no idea you couldn’t, either. What distracted you? I’m curious.

So, these questions.

1. I don’t have any of the shit you need for a website.

2. Copying sites I like is a smart idea, so I went and found some for you. Is this what doing homework feels like? I usually skipped mine.

3. The site is for exposure, but I like the idea of direct sales. Would that mean building a shop?

4. No social media. Hate that shit.

5. As for time line … I’m not picky. This is a favor, after all. Fit me in around your actual work.

Speaking of favors—where are we at with this list of yours?

Regards (see how easy that was?),

Red

Red,

No, I wasn’t miserable on the back of your racing death machine. As for my lack of focus: concentration is something I occasionally struggle with. Not that I allow it to impact my work.

Re: direct sales, yes, we would build a shop into the site, and you—through that avenue, at least—would control your own sales, etc. Examples attached.

An Instagram feed on the site would add a dynamic, social element. As an artist, it seems wise to have an account. Consider it.

I don’t think we should discuss my list until we’ve at least hammered out these details. You helped me tick off an item yesterday. I should start my end of the deal before we go forward. I don’t want you to feel you’re being taken advantage of.

REGARDS,

Chloe

DEAR Chloe,

If you weren’t miserable on the racing death machine, what were you? Describe it to me, just so I can make sure I haven’t traumatized you.

I’d definitely like a shop. The direct sales thing sounds right up my alley, and if I don’t sell some of these pieces soon I’ll end up drowning in canvas.

I’m not joining Instagram, though.

And I don’t feel taken advantage of. You’re really into balance, huh? Why is that?

(Since you did so well with regards, let’s push it a bit.)

Best wishes,

Red

To one Mr. Redford Morgan,

You haven’t traumatized me. The ride … surprised me. But I liked it. Please don’t worry. I really did. And even if I hadn’t, I liked making progress on the list.

The shop is a go, then. As for Instagram, you really should get over your Too Cool for School reluctance and just sign up. This behavior is modern hipsterism.

I don’t think anyone needs a specific reason to avoid incurring excessive debt. We’ve made a deal and I am taking it seriously. The end.

Best,

Chloe

Dear Ms. Chloe Button Brown,

Glad to hear you’re not traumatized. Confession: I already knew you liked it, because afterward, you stared at me like I’d just rocked your world. Which is a great look on you, by the way. Feel free to shower me in hero worship more often.

But—let me get one thing straight—are you saying that finishing the list and enjoying the list are two separate issues, or something? Isn’t the list made up of things you want? Things you fantasize about, maybe?

I’m really hoping you didn’t just call me a hipster, by the way. I’ve read that sentence like ten times, hoping you wouldn’t dare. I am not a fucking hipster. I don’t even have a mustache. I just think Instagram is where self-esteem goes to die.

“Debt” is an interesting word to use, when you’re talking about two people helping each other out. Are you scared I’ll help a little too much, and you won’t be able to help me back, and next thing you know, I’ll be banging your door down like a bailiff and I’ll take your laptop as retribution? Because that’s definitely not going to happen.

Yours sincerely,

Red

Dear Red,

(You write emails as if they’re letters, and it’s ridiculous, and now you’ve got me doing it. Disgraceful.)